Recycling
by shirotora-san
Summary: If four hundred dollars is really what their friendship amounted to, Wilson finds he isn't sure who really walked away - and who was really left behind. Takes place in 502, "Not Cancer."


There's a difference between thinking you know what you need, and _knowing_ what you need.

Wilson closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the door of his apartment. He could still hear the thump-step sound of his not-quite-unexpected visitor's footsteps receding down the hallway. He breathed deeply, and the scent of pine invaded his nostrils, probably from the varnish the cleaning lady used to polish the wooden door. The artificial scent was calming, soothing, peaceful, _fake. _It mocked him, reminded him that everything he now had wasn't real, could _never_ be real – even, or perhaps _especially,_ this pretense of a new life.

Without House.

"_I have to do what's right for me, you have to do what's right for you."_

A ding, the slide of metal doors opening, a pause, the slide of metal doors closing. His stupid screwed-up (former) best friend had just boarded the elevator and left.

The sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach made him feel as if he was riding an elevator himself.

"_Yeah. But it comes easier for me."_

He turned around and saw, lying innocently on the floor, the one thing out of place in his carefully reorganized and reconstructed home.

"_You'd jeopardize a patient because of my—"_

"_If it keeps you here."_

The one solid, empirical proof of what House had been saying all along.

Everybody lies.

"_Your friendship matters more to me than this patient."_

The carpet brushed against his shaking fingers as he bent down to pick up the crumpled wad of bills. The sound of crinkling paper was deafening in the silent room as he gripped it tightly in his fist.

So this was what their friendship amounted to. Four hundred fucking dollars.

"_We're not friends anymore. There's no trust to be breached. I can have you followed, I can call you names, tell your secrets—"_

The wastebasket banged against the wall on impact, shattering the almost suffocating silence in the room. The sound reverberated through the walls, and the basket teetered back and forth precariously on its base before it righted itself once more. A second and a heartbeat later, everything went still.

The silence seemed more palpable now.

"_Please don't do this. Please."_

A movement outside the window caught his eye. The curtain rod rattled noisily at the force as he pushed aside the fabric and looked down. House was walking on the street below, having just rounded the corner of Wilson's apartment.

His eyebrows furrowed as he gingerly stepped closer to the window. He watched with growing curiosity as a young man sitting casually on a bench looked up as House passed him by. And he raised his eyebrows when the young man folded the newspaper he was reading and hurriedly began to follow House. Even from his position several floors above them, he could see the look of resigned annoyance that crossed House's face, and the sheepish grin that the young man flashed back, an expression so uncannily similar to—

Wilson stared. There were only a handful of people who could tolerate House's presence, and only because they were obliged to. Most people would gladly avoid being in House's path, not out of respect for his credibility or reputation or even his disability, but simply out of their own self-preservation. It was not unlikely that House would whack them with his cane if they didn't get out of his way – after he gleefully insulted them, of course, or humiliated them. Or both.

He shook his head. If they weren't getting their paychecks from him, or making sure he wasn't destroying any hospital equipment and doing anything illegal, he didn't know anyone who actually voluntarily sought – or needed – House's presence. Except perhaps for—

Wilson blinked. It surprised him more than he cared to admit when he saw how the young man fell naturally into step with House, easily adjusting to the doctor's awkward three-step gait, as if he was used to walking with House all the time. And he easily recognized the minute actions House did in response; he stepped slightly to the side to make room for the man beside him, the lively hand gestures he made as he talked carefully controlled to avoid hitting his companion. The movements were familiar to him, because that was how House was whenever he'd walk together with—

Wilson watched as the pair paused in front of a shop. They didn't seem to be planning to go in, but they continued with their conversation, which was getting more and more animated by the minute. He narrowed his eyes. There was absolutely no reason for this man to be walking together with House unless…

"_I paid a private investigator to spy on you."_

"…_You didn't."_

Wearily, Wilson ran his hands over his face. He knew he was a vain man, but he was sure he didn't imagine the newly-forming wrinkles in his face and the hollows under his eyes as his fingers lingered on them.

At least the laugh lines near his temples were disappearing now that House was gone.

"_There are other oncologists—"_

"_Better oncologists. But I need you."_

He pressed his lips together to stamp down the odd and almost shameful feeling of pride that burst in his chest. House _needed_ him. So much, that he had to pay someone else to take his place.

To take his place…

"_How much are you billing per hour? Three hundred?"_

His gaze darted to the wastebasket at his side.

"_Here's four."_

His eyes were once again caught by the movement outside his window. Or rather, by the lack of movement. House and his companion had stopped talking. The young man was staring at House, his expression a mixture of confusion and anticipation. And Wilson watched as the expression on House's face turned into one of realization, amazement and awe. Wilson knew that look. It was a look House would always get whenever the last piece of his latest medical puzzle was unintentionally handed to him by—

Wilson stepped closer to the window, his hands pressed against the glass as his gaze fixated on his stupid screwed-up (former) best friend's face. Even at this height and distance, he didn't have to look too hard to see the details: the contours of his cheekbones, the graying stubble, the icy blue eyes. He didn't even have to make his mind imagine them – his mind could already _see_ them.

He still didn't expect, however, to see what he suddenly did.

"_You spread misery because you can't feel anything else._"

House… was smiling.

"_You manipulate people because you can't handle any kind of real relationship._"

He watched as House flicked his arm to look at his watch, said something to the young man over his shoulder, and walked away.

"_I have the right to walk away from you, House._"

The young man could only watch him for a long moment. House was walking farther and farther away, yet the man was still rooted to the spot, unwilling to take a step forward.

"_There's a world beyond you, you need to realize that._"

And Wilson could only watch as the young man, after he threw his arms in the air and gazed pleadingly, _frustratingly,_ at the heavens, followed the path the doctor took.

And as for House…

Wilson stared. He couldn't believe what he saw House doing.

"_And even if you don't…"_

House wasn't even looking back. He didn't even know the young man he left behind was following him. He didn't seem to _care._

"_I'm moving on._"

Wilson watched as the young man caught up to House just as he was stepping onto the bus that would take him back to Princeton Plainsboro. The young man had grabbed his arm, and House was now staring at him. Neither spoke, but it looked like neither had to.

"_The next time you knock…_"

House sighed and rolled his eyes. The young man grinned.

And they boarded the bus together.

"_I'm not answering._"

There's a difference between thinking you know what you need, and _knowing_ what you need. House walked away from what he obviously didn't need. And the young man walked towards what he obviously needed.

Wilson stayed rooted to the spot.

"_We're not friends anymore, House."_

Finally, he took a step back and removed his hands from the window. His fingerprints were left on the glass – a smudge on his otherwise clear view of the world beyond him.

"_I'm not sure we ever were._"

His gaze lingered to the wastebasket. He stared at it for a while. He blinked. Then he rushed forward and sifted through the trash in the basket to reclaim the bills he had thrown away. Quickly, he sat down on his couch and began to unfurl the bills one by one.

"_Does he care about you?"_

"_I think so."_

"_You don't know?"_

What the hell had he been thinking? It was four hundred dollars, for heaven's sake. What had gotten into him, throwing away something so valuable? Sure, by society's standards, it wasn't much, but it's still worth _something_.

"_As Dr. House likes to say, 'Everybody lies.'"_

"_It's not what people say, it's what they do."_

He spread out the paper money on the coffee table and carefully inspected them. The bills were crumpled, but not torn. The images and details imprinted on them were now distorted, but otherwise, they were still whole.

"…_Yes, he cares about me."_

Wilson smiled. He could still smooth out the creases.


End file.
